Dead Ends Meet
by Anna Christy
Summary: With a church-loving vampire running loose in the Midwest, Faith and Wesley find themselves offered a second chance at life or death. AU, post-AtS and BtVS.
1. Grasping the Straws

_This idea has been nagging ever since these two showed up in a previous fic, so I finally capitulated and here we are again!  
As usual, all characters belong to Joss Whedon and the WB, no infringement intended._

_WIP in the sense that I'm an obsessive editor.  
Mature content to follow eventually, hence the lovely little M.  
AU / post-AtS and BtVS endings.  
_

_Cheers!  
Anna  
_

* * *

It was the middle of South Dakota, Nebraska, Wyoming, whatever. The middle of nowhere looked the same everywhere. She finally pulled over to a truck stop past the highway, morning at nine o'clock, which wasn't too early for catcalls. Fuck off, thanks.

She downed the eggs and sausage though the guy she was sitting across smelled bad, looked worse. She listened to his story about a kid who drained the holy blood from a church congregation two towns over. Yeah that's pretty strange, she said without any tangible concern. It's always two towns over, since a year ago when it started. Almost caught up to he/she/it in June then got run out of town by a mob because she had lit the local church on fire. Thing still managed to get out and keep going; if nothing else it kept her mind off the past.

The gas station was dusty outside the truck stop, sun beating down like it was noon instead of nine. She put on her helmet against the wind that picked dirt up and messed it around in hair, eyes, clothes inside and out. Stood there for a minute, zipping up her jacket. Well, might as well visit the guy. She sure as hell wasn't getting any closer to the wild kid. Like you're not using the whole church thing as an excuse to haul your ass out there, she thought. She straddled the bike and gunned it west.

* * *

  
"He's not _here?_" Fuck, what a waste of stolen gas.

"I'm sorry, should he be?" The red-headed sleek receptionist fielded her in the steel lobby of the Stoddard & Lockner firm.

Question with a question, the bitch was already getting on her nerves. "So Wolfram and Hart, they move or what?"

The lady raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about."

Oh yeah, that'll really work, she thought. Before she could shoot back a retort that would most likely involve a threat, a man spoke from behind her: "Relocated to New York, under new management."

Wesley, of all possible people, looking absurdly Oxford in a suit and tie. He was confused, frowning, and she felt like her eyes might've just popped out of their sockets.

"Wes?" Pause. "Okay, what the--"

They went to the chic bar across the street and the bartender frowned when she ordered a Miller. She couldn't stop staring at Wesley, like he dropped from the goddamn atmosphere or something. Basically did. They got a table in the back.

"Where's Angel. 'Cause last time I checked it was Wolfram and Hart over there, not asswipe the redhead."

He sighed like he had told the story before. "I don't know." Place fell to the ground, last he heard they were up against the senior partners and Angel managed to scrap out an escape to ... well, who knew. Senior partners sure didn't.

"Well, Jesus, what if he's dead or something?"

"No pun intended, right. Angel can handle himself. There's no use in looking for someone who doesn't want to be found, Faith."

She sighed, wishing Angel had at least agreed to give her a cell number. "Yeah, jackass is probably halfway to Tibet. So ... why are you still here?"

He smiled, a twist of the lips. "I died." Sipped his beer. "Funny thing about contracts with the devil, this walking dead situation. Rather takes the fun out of 'kill the lawyers'. Of course, now that they don't need me ... Well. It's shit."

She was weirded out for about a hour. After working in Sunnydale this wasn't the most surprising thing she'd ever heard. She gave him the number to her motel, hoped he wouldn't come over because the place is so cheap and hoped he would come over because it was good to see a familiar face.

He left Stoddard & Lockner early, going back to the nice high-rise condo they gave him. Thought about Faith, about Angel, Buffy. Fred. Someone else's life. Put the piece of paper with her number on fridge, under a plain magnet. Looked at it, made a cup of tea, looked at it again.

"I should have mentioned it earlier; I have a spare room, you're welcome to stay here."

* * *

He hit the alarm and rubbed his eyes, stretching his way into the kitchen. He stopped; someone's in the fridge. He's being robbed … of his ice cream? Faith, that's right. She glanced up as he opened the blinds on the panoramic windows.

"Morning sunshine. So who'd you have to kill to get this place?"

He didn't answer, flicking the television to CNN.

Faith began opening drawers in search of a spoon. "That was joke, you know."

"Very clever."

"Geez Wes, wake up on the wrong side of bed or what?" She reclined luxuriously onto the leather couch and changed the channel to Nickelodeon. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him pick a shirt and tie from his closet. "So, explain this dead lawyer thing to me one more time."

He winced as the bandages shifted over the wound that never healed. "Why don't you explain to me what exactly you're doing in Los Angeles? Aside from Angel, of course." He turned back to her, pulling the tie around to begin a knot.

Faith shrugged, licking the last melted drops of vanilla off her spoon. He pretended not to notice there's a woman stretched on his couch sucking a kitchen utensil. "Ok. Fine. Business, actually." She sat up. "I got a problem out in the Midwest; bitch of a vamp that keeps feeding off small-town churches. Figured I could use Angel's help on that sort of thing, right up his alley and all that."

"_You_ asking for help. My God, the world really has changed," he muttered and checked his reflection, caught Faith's as well. She looked the same. "The Midwest. So you're not with Buffy anymore."

Faith scoffed. "No way, man. Sort of a loner. It's better that way."

Again the twist of a smile. "Yes, I suppose I can relate."

She leaned forward on the couch, studying him. "Wes? What the hell, are you going to work or something?"

He stopped midlift, portfolio case in hand. "Well yes, I was under that impression."

"I thought you said they didn't need you. You filing papers for the secretary?"

"Mergers and Acquisitions." She snorted and he set the case back down. "Oh I forgot, I meant to stay here and wait on you hand and foot."

Faith swore for a minute that he almost had that classic frustrated look meant for Giles, Buffy, Xander, or all three. She waved a hand around as if clearing the air. "All I'm sayin is, why waste your time hanging around here, Wes! Look. You and me. Roadtrip. Fight some vamp ass, it'll be just like, you know, old times and all that shit!" She flashed a smile at the rush of restless energy the thought gave her.

He quirked an eyebrow at that. "I don't seem to recall a version of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid in our recent past. In fact, I believe the last time we met there was a murderous Angelus terrorizing the city. And the time before that, I had a lovely hour or so of torture. So forgive me for any lack of enthusiasm," he ground out, finding himself angry before he'd even had a coffee or breakfast. Damn.

She wasn't shut down that easily. "Yeah okay, I get it, I'm not your number one girl. But you really wanna stay here at this shitty job? I mean, you're … dead, or whatever, and _this_ is what you want to do? Pretty goddamn lame, Wes." She gave it another minute or two of stony silence, then mumbled something at the floor.

He frowned. "What?"

"I said … And I could really use some help with this vamp. The body count is getting high. It's nothing I can't handle, but you know, backup."

She was asking_ him_ for help. Not Angel. A few years ago this would've been hysterically funny, he thought. He sighed, knowing he was about to make a terrible mistake for the umpteenth time. In fact, it'd make quite a nice theme for his entire life at this point. "Alright. I'll come. But just for a couple days."


	2. Reintroduction

_Things have been a little busy these past few months (a vast understatement) but I fully intend to finish posting this beast shortly!_

_Cheers!  
Anna_

* * *

She looked out the window of the truck, eighty miles per hour blowing her hair back. Maybe Wesley was right not to take his Corvette out here. The yellow and tan rectangles of field were outlined with years-old barbed wire and singular flat plateaus jutted up from the land every few hours. They had entered Nebraska around noon, the faded national highway sign welcoming them to the Cornhusker State. Wonderful. The blue sky of Los Angeles was now replaced by low, solid gray clouds pregnant with afternoon rain. A fat raindrop hit the windshield.

She paused her music and removed the headphones. Wesley was an absolute control freak with the radio, in the sense that he had cut the wires at the last rest stop. "Hey pull over at this diner." She pointed to a low, beaten restaurant coming up in the next mile.

"Ron Eats?" Wesley read off the neon sign, the missing "s" flickering in. Hopefully Ron didn't eat the family dog or the kitchen rats from the look of the place.

Faith rolled her eyes. "What're you looking so worried for? Like you don't even need food, right?"

"Habit." For some reason he felt vaguely insulted.

She held the map over her head as they beat the rain to the diner. Two other customers, old bikers. The waitress wordlessly served them coffee as they sat down. She flattened the map over the table, searched for a minute, then pointed to one of several yellow highlighter marks. "This was the last place I heard it visited."

Wesley looked so closely at the map she thought his nose might touch the table. "There's no town there?"

"Tipton. It's not marked. This thing takes down the small places." Her gum smacked.

"And how long have you been tracking it?"

She shrugged. "Bout a year, through four states. Word of mouth, mostly."

"Good Lord … But there's no pattern? There must be some sort of pattern, how he chooses the churches," Wesley muttered to himself. "Any description of the vampire?"

Faith raised an eyebrow. "Um, fangs? Yeah, about that: not really any living witnesses. The last guy I talked to was convinced it was his neighbor's kid."

Wesley sat back and slowly stirred his coffee. "We don't know where it is or what it looks like. Forgive me for reverting to the old 'needle in a haystack' cliché."

"Hey it's not like I haven't tried! Look, I figure we check this last town out, and I dunno, maybe you can get some clues."

"Right," he replied wryly, gazing out at the downpour.

She fiddled with her napkin and tore off little pieces to toss into her empty cup. "So uh … How'd you die?"

Wesley glanced over briefly, as if sizing her up for the answer. "Stabbed. Fairly boring, I suppose, considering the usual company."

Faith nodded slowly. "Knife's a bitch. …What'd it feel like? Being dead, I mean."

"… Nothing. The next thing I remembered was standing in an elevator, having my contract shoved at me."

She bit her lip. "Bummer."

"Not exactly how I pictured."

The rain had let up by the time they were back on the road, mud splattering against the sides of the truck. Faith cradled the map in her lap and kept place of their location with a painted nail. She made a mental note to get more polish. "Should be the next ten miles."

Wesley slowed, seeing small clusters of clapboard houses, a gas station sign and a blue water tower emerge on the horizon. Out here there were no surprises; he could see everything that was coming at least ten, fifteen minutes before it actually happened. Which gave him plenty of time to study the white-washed church steeple. The town of Tipton was deserted as they entered.

"Guess nobody's home?" Faith asked.

Wesley nodded ahead. "Funeral service."

He parked among the decades-old Fords and Chevrolets in the church's gravel lot. They sat for a minute and observed the morbid gathering in the back graveyard, a bunch of black umbrellas. Six graves were freshly dug.

"It happened four, five days back. The vamp never turns anyone, just racks up a nice body count." She frowned at the service. It was a shame. "Let's check this church can go in there, right?"

Wesley shrugged. "Haven't tried yet."

The church was empty, the priest and members being otherwise occupied. He thought he felt a fleeting chill as he crossed the threshold, but it could have been the rain-cooled wind. No visible smiting so far. The wooden floorboards creaked and the stained glass was dark under the cloudy sky. Faith strolled down the aisle smacking her gum and it crossed his mind that it might be a little blasphemous. "Can't you spit that out."

She raised an eyebrow and snorted. "Six people got murdered in here and you're worried that I'm offending God or whatever with my Bubblicious?" She stuck it on the back of a pew.

Wesley bent down to get a better look at what he already suspected was on the floor. "Blood; bit of a nasty job then."

"Vamp was probably in a hurry, you got townspeople screaming."

He paused. "Not necessarily. See how these blood stains are all in separate places? And I bet …" He moved two pews and stood back.

Faith crossed her arms. "Huh. Sort of a circle pattern? So they were tied down." She glanced around, then went to the choir chairs. The metal had been wiped clean but a smear of dark brownish red down one of the legs gave it away. "Should've noticed that before."

Wesley paced the aisle. "It isn't haphazard yet it's clearly a waste of perfectly good blood. Perhaps a kind of ritual?"

Suddenly the door banged open and an old black-robed priest cleared his throat loudly. Wesley and Faith froze. "God bless." He noticed the shifted pews.

"Ah, yes, reverend," Wesley recovered smoothly, hoping that Faith would just stay out of it. "We were, ah, just traveling through town. We heard from our sister church what happened. Terrible, terrible."

The reverend eyed Faith's less than conservative traveling clothes. "Sure is. Funeral for Jimmy Thorton just finished, and I got two more lined up this afternoon. What church did you say you's is from?"

"Um, Community of the Messiah? Los Angeles."

"Los Angeles," he nodded, as if that explained everything. "One of those new wave things. Used to get 'em all the time out here back in the sixties."

Faith interrupted. "So there were no survivors? From the massacre?"

He cringed at the word. "That's what the sheriff's sayin'. Who would do such a thing in a place of worship is beyond my years…" he trailed off and shook his head.

After assuring the reverend that no, they didn't need any sacrament at the moment and yes, they would try and make it to the bible study on Tuesday, Wesley took his directions to the local motel for the night.

* * *

A regular Norman Bates establishment, he thought. The place had obviously been vacant for weeks at least and he wondered why a town like Tipton would even need a motel. Faith dropped her duffel on the bed and watched a small puff of dust swirl into the air. Cable probably wouldn't work.

"Home sweet home, right Wes? Betcha you're missin' that sweet condo." She pulled out a pack of Oreos saved from one of the many gas stations.

"Mmm." He flicked on the bathroom light and was relieved at the lack of roaches. A roll of thunder sounded from outside; another storm rolling in from the plains. He absently rubbed the bandages on his stomach, feeling the severed skin move underneath. It was strange being away from Los Angeles, as if he had forgotten that another world existed outside of the law firm that held his life. Well, not held. More like stored in a dusty filing cabinet in the basement. There was decidedly nothing worse than being dead and still being expendable. Angel, on the other hand, had a bounty on his head that was probably worth a small country at this point. The others were gone; no records, no way for him to find out. Simply vanished. Illyria or Fred—or whoever she was—included.

"… really sleep?"

He realized Faith had been talking to him from the other room. "What?"

She had her arms hugged around a pillow, playing with the bedside lamp switch. "With the whole dead thing; how do you sleep? I mean, it's not really sleeping, right?"

He slowly hung up his jacket. "No. Not really. I can close my eyes and think … I don't know, about nothing."

"Must drive you crazy after a couple hours."

"I suppose it's like meditating. Drifting off."

"Huh. … So, uh, don't watch me sleep or anything weird like that." She clicked off the light, though the room still flickered briefly with lightening.

He hung between the bathroom and bedroom, then decided on the former. The shower spat out bursts of cold water before settling into a steady stream. Don't take a shower in the middle of a thunderstorm, he thought. Or what, he'd get electrocuted and die? He peeled off the clothes he'd had on for over fifteen hours and unwound the gauze from around his middle. It used to be that he'd get sick just looking at the angry rip, the way blood didn't flow from it. He hissed as the hot water touched the inner muscle.

Faith was asleep, one hand dangling off the edge of the bed, when he finished. They could've gotten a double. He wished they would have; she was half-sprawled on his side. He stared at the ceiling, at that little red light on the smoke detector. The rumbles of thunder were further away now. Probably in the next county. Wesley closed his eyes and tried to mimic sleep. Seeing Faith had brought back waves of memories; not all pleasant but not all bad either. It was a little overwhelming; it reminded him that he had been … well, that he had been Wesley Wyndham-Pryce once.

She heard the shower turn off, the rustle of clothes, felt the pressure of his weight on the mattress beside her. He wasn't the only one that could feign sleep. She was getting a cramp in her leg that screamed for a shift in position; she ignored it. After a few minutes she concluded that he wasn't going to make a move. Faith couldn't cover the twinge of disappointment. Of course, if he _had_ tried something she would have acted offended. For a little while. You did torture the guy once, she reasoned. And he's dead; c'mon, that's Buffy territory. Maybe he can't even get it up. Gross. Forget it, Faith. She settled instead for remembering that guy from a bar down in Mexico a few weeks back, smooth tequila kisses over her bruises. Sometimes that sort of thing worked.

* * *

They went back to the church the next day; she considered it a waste of time but he wanted a second look to mull things over and play Sherlock Holmes. Typical Wesley, she thought. The sun was finally out, bringing with it a tearing wind that made her hunch her shoulders. They blew into the church and for a moment she was struck by how delicate the stained glass looked in the light.

"So here we are. Lemme know if you have any revelations." She prowled up to the altar and checked out the view from the pulpit. Wesley was peering up into the rafters. She picked at one of the bouquets, a sad arrangement of buttercups and something that looked like a weed.

"It must be some sort of ritual," Wesley muttered. "But there aren't any symbolic markers. Strange."

The wind made the walls groan and after a few more minutes they silently acknowledged there was nothing left to be gotten from the scene. Gravel crunched underfoot as she trailed him back to the truck. "Can't you call in a favor at your evil law firm? Help us out?"

He scoffed. "As if they would have anything to do with me."

Faith slid him a look, frowning. She guessed the last year or few hadn't been too kind on him. It showed. Well, so what, are you gonna play therapist the whole trip? She wasn't here to solve other people's problems; the mission right now was to find this thing and kill it. Preferably with as much gore as possible. She hopped into the cab, flipped out a pocket mirror and applied a fresh coat of lipstick.

"Okay, Jeeves. Next real town is due north. Reddington."

Wesley quirked an eyebrow. "And we can just assume it passed through there as well?"

"Can't travel in daylight, so yeah. Places to hide out here are pretty rare, Wes." She snapped the mirror shut and caught the glimmer of his smile. If things kept up like this maybe he'd fix the radio.


	3. Another Old Enemy

She was sitting at the Reddington tavern contemplating a third beer when her cellphone rang, the tinny ringtone jarring her from reverie. The number was an area code from out of state. Suspicious but she'd risk it. "Yeah?"

"Faith. I have news." The rough voice on the other end sounded like it had smoked ten packs too much.

"Johnny?" She swung down from the bar stool and out into the afternoon sun.

"I thought you would remember. Your friend is coming into town. Thunder Ridge, South Dakota."

"You sure? How long do I have?" A brief bout of static threatened the call.

"The omens tell it; the crows are flocking, the underground is quiet, scared. One day, maybe two. My brother's tribe moves out from there today."

"Will you be--" Her phone beeped as the other line hung up. Wonderful. Not that he had ever been a man of many words, but a little more information would've been nice, she thought. Faith squinted at the sun, then down at her watch. Better get going. At least Johnny's tip matched with what they had heard around town; an old beat up car passed through heading north. Strange traffic for a town used to semis and flatbeds.

She found Wesley back at the bed and breakfast, facedown in the pillows. Napping, she thought, until she remembered that he didn't really sleep. Weird. He started up and fumbled for his glasses as she came in. "What time …" He glanced at the alarm clock and answered his own question.

Faith hauled her duffel onto the bed and started throwing in clothes. "Long drive ahead of us and we got a day to do it. Thunder Ridge, South Dakota; should get a real cute meet-and-greet with this vamp."

He sat up. "You found something at the _bar?_"

"Yeah, an old friend called me, Johnny Bear. He helped me almost catch the fucker back in June." Off of Wesley's skeptical look she continued. "He's Sioux; their tribe hears things ahead of most people out here."

Wesley rubbed a hand over his face, forgetting he had just put his glasses on. Really should get contacts, he thought. Johnny Bear … a bad 1950s gangster remake. He was still finding it hard to believe that he was wandering around with a rogue slayer in the middle of the country. Yet somehow this was more real than anything that had happened in the past seven, eight years. Faith was staring at him.

"Any day now, Wes. Can we get going?"

He shot her a look and stiffly began packing up the few things around the room. "Traipsing through Nebraska with the most demanding woman possible," he muttered under his breath.

"I heard that."

* * *

She drove, skirting around the Badlands by sunset. The clouds on the horizon glowed pink, red, shades of purple as the plateaus' craggly sides disappeared into shadow. She flicked on the headlights and the sun finally met earth. The truck swerved slightly with the wind. Her nails tapped out a rhythm against the wheel and she half-watched Wesley tinker with his cellphone. His face took on an eerie quality in the fake blue light of the screen, reminding her again that he was less than alive.

"Lawyer demons wondering where you went?" she ventured.

He snapped the phone shut. "No one special."

"Is there? I mean, anyone _special?_" she asked, teasing with a smirk. Kept her eyes on the road this time.

"There was." He weighed the silence, musing over memories that had been recalled so many times they played like a short movie. "But, ah, I have a friend or two from the company. You know."

She nudged him in the shoulder. "Look at the proper British man, gettin' some…" She made light of it, grinning to the windshield, having picked up on his short pause.

Wesley hemmed politely, covering the flashbacks of Janine on her stomach, Kelly on her knees, Laura biting her lip. At least the senior partners had the grace to leave him that. Minutes of relief that he tried to make last for hours. The headlights ate up tens of miles of cracked asphalt, the only opposing traffic an occasional semi trailer. They would blow past with long bellows and vanish back into the plains as two burning taillights. He glanced at Faith, elbow propped by the window and fingers twirling through her hair. She was lost in a world outside of the truck for the moment, staying a constant course with a bored expression. The night-lit speedometer and odometer bathed her knuckles in a green glow. Another semi went by and the light ran over her face, a quick caress.

She caught him looking and huffed a smile. "What?"

He turned away and shook his head. "Nothing. It's just … odd. To be here."

"Instead of the glitzy cool firm in LA? Yeah it must be nice to see the real world. You know you should travel, get out more. I mean, hell, you have plenty of time, right?" He didn't reply and silence draped back over them. She was inexplicably happy to finally see the town of Thunder Ridge in the distance as a cluster of low lights.

They checked into the only motel, at a truck stop right outside of town. Faith could feel her knees complaining with every step after sitting for so long and she took a deep breath of cold air. Wesley stretched in the parking lot, feeling his back crack. She stood outside their room and jingled the keys thoughtfully. "There's only one church in town and that's where they're gonna hit," she called.

He rubbed the back of his neck to work out the knots, regarding her figure backlit by the room. "Check it out tonight, then?"

"Bingo."

She crossed the gravel lot to the truck and opened up the back. She was pumped. This thing was going _down_. Knife? Check. Stakes? Triple check. Crossbow? She hesitated. Maybe not tonight; it was a little obvious and she wasn't expecting trouble. No use in getting arrested by the local sheriff before the game even got started. Faith zipped up her jacket and mentally reviewed the town layout; three blocks to the church, one more to the cemetery. Wesley followed her wordlessly down the street, equipped with his own knives from under the dashboard and driver's seat.

He spoke up as the tiny clapboard church appeared. "Say you do finally dust this vampire. Then what?"

Faith snorted. "I dunno, I get to go to college."

"You mean you're completely fine doing this all on your own."

"I'm a Slayer, it's kinda the job description."

"It's lonely."

She stopped and put a hand on her hip. "Can we not do this psycho shit? Because as far as I'm concerned, you're not really the normal one here, Wes." That would shut him up. She felt a little guilty, like she had just hit a puppy or something. Faith willed herself to not get angry before starting in on this job and settled for kicking in the church doors. Don't wake the neighbors.

Her eyes took a minute to adjust and she issued a silent thank-you for the moonlight. "Anybody home?" she called out casually, scanning the pews and altar. A stricken-looking Christ appealed to her from the wall. Wesley touched her elbow and she almost jumped. He pointed to the pulpit but she didn't notice anything. "What?" she hissed.

"The flowers," he breathed back. She shivered at the light touch of his words on her neck, then cursed herself for not focusing. The flowers, right. Half the bouquet was missing from the pulpit's vase. So either a member of the congregation was a floral klepto or someone had already visited here tonight. Faith made her way up the aisle, checking behind the pews and finally the pulpit itself.

"Place is empty now," she announced, disappointed.

Wesley sniffed one of the remaining flowers. Perfume?

"You wanna take some back with you? Home décor on the road?" Faith snarked.

"Funny."

"I'm hilarious."

"No, I mean it's strange. It almost smells like a kind of perfume…"

"Well, it's a church. Old lady stuff, probably."

"Odd," he muttered, not convinced.

Faith shook her head. "I don't get it. So the vamp supposedly takes half a bouquet of flowers and might be into Chanel? Sounds more like a romantic date. Maybe the priest is banging it out next door with some chick." She got a disapproving frown from Wesley. "Well, wanna stake the place out tonight? I'd say nothing's going down, but hey, I'm all up for a slumber party."

Wesley kept up the disapproving frown and looked back out the window, still gnawing over the mystery of the flowers. He had seen them before and the memory was right on the brink of recovery. He suddenly realized the night landscape laid out before him wasn't so still after all; two figures were making their way through the graveyard entrance. He motioned to Faith, who was about put away her stakes.

She raised an eyebrow. "Somebody's out past bedtime." She kept close to the shadows around the window and watched as the two approached the church. Definitely vampires, she thought. Who else in their right mind would wear outfits like that outside of a bondage club. Rather than go around to the front door, they stopped by the small church garden and one pointed to a clump of purple flowers.

Their voices cut low through the clear air. "Those it?" the woman twanged.

"The hell do I know about flowers," the other man grumbled in reply.

"She said the ones that looked like sunset."

"I ain't seen a sunset in goddamn three years, Irma!"

"Shh!"

"… Fine, just yank 'em up, will you?"

Wesley held up a hand in restraint as Faith made a move toward the window. "See where they go," he murmured.

"Wes—

"I heard."

Flowers that looked like the sunset. Drusilla.

The two vampires dumped the flowers unceremoniously into a sack they had brought and began heading back the way they had come. Wesley thought it was somewhat absurd; the land was so flat it was practically impossible to imagine hiding at least three vampires in the graveyard. He squinted as one lifted what appeared to a wooden trapdoor out at the fringes of the graveyard.

"Storm cellar. Of course … Though not quite typical of Drusilla. I would've thought a room with a view."

"She knows I'm after her. Beggars can't be choosers." Faith shook her head in disbelief. "This whole time it was _her?_ Pretty aggressive without the platinum boy toy. Crazy bitch," she said, almost impressed. It was too methodical, planned.

Wesley moved back from the window and headed out, as though he just finished watching an especially interesting movie. "We should go after her tomorrow, in the daylight. Attack the lair."

"No shit, Wes." Faith reluctantly followed him outside. "About time I ended her ninth life."


	4. Introspection

She narrowed her eyes at the flowers, regarding them suspiciously. "All wrong," she murmured and slowly rearranged several sloppy bouquets. The storm cellar was all wrong too. No stars, just dangling roots, hanging limbs of weeds. She was less than pleased with this town. "There is no singing down here …" Drusilla stopped, swinging her hips as she appeared to listen to some buried voice. "The wolves are following me, want to snap me up in their chops, they do …"

She abruptly turned and clapped her hands at the small assembly of vampires, who had dumbly been watching her. "We're going to have company. Bring out the tea sets." She directed her gaze towards the corner, lips lifting in a haughty smile. "As for _you_ … Very special extra desserts will put you in order."

* * *

Faith stared at the hotel alarm clock as it shifted one digit: six thirty-one. She pushed aside the sheets and pulled on a pair of sneakers. The bed creaked. Wesley obviously heard her get up—he didn't sleep, right?—but made no motion. She contemplated the line of his back for a moment; the body of a dead man. Yet somehow not. She slipped out the door into gray semi-morning air and hit the gravel running.

No matter how far or in what direction she ran out here, it always seemed to be the same exercise in futility. Her sneakers scuffed up a fine trail of dust. Drusilla had outsmarted, outmaneuvered _her_? Not just her even, but Johnny Bear. They had burnt down the church together and just when she was convinced they had killed the thing, four more bodies two towns over a week later. And she had wasted time taking shots and fucking Johnny. Might as well be back in Sunnydale for this kind of shit. The only thing missing was Buffy to swoop in with charmed timing and take the prize away. Yeah, well, B wasn't even in the States anymore, Faith thought with smug satisfaction. And it was Sunnydale Crater now. A jar of Dru's dust would be a great souvenir from this bum-fuck town.

An hour later and the sun was starting to warm up for the day, making the sweat and dust stick to the back of her legs as she walked back into the parking lot. Now was as good a time as any to stake and burn some vamps. She felt a twinge of loneliness; Wesley would be heading back to Los Angeles soon. There wasn't any reason for him to stay longer than solving this problem. Well, any reason in_ his_ mind.

Wesley looked up as she slammed the stubborn door, then returned to shaving out a stake. The tiny wastebasket in front of him was half full of wood strips already. "Have a lovely jog?" he asked, more to make noise than anything else.

"Hot," she muttered, kicking her sneakers off. "Ready to get this over with, hit the road again?" Faith sorted through her duffel for a new shirt.

Not exactly, Wesley felt like saying. Los Angeles was the giant anchor of his un-life. Everything he knew was there, yet nothing was there. After losing so much, it felt … fine, he would admit … _good_ to get back to the business of staking. At least things were a little more black and white than they had been in a long while. He realized he was staring off with the knife in hand, paused over the stake. He cleared his throat, glancing as Faith peeled off her sweated shirt in exchange for a fresh one. Scarred skin, flush from her run. More human than the smooth, tanned curves and dips of Janine, Kelly, Laura waiting for him in LA. He shifted on the bed and turned back to the business of the stake. Hell, maybe Dru will have moved on by some bizarre change of plan, and he could have an excuse for staying out here, lost in the plains. He wasn't about to beg to be a slayer's sidekick; he'd been that his whole life. No point in ruining the afterlife. This was a temporary favor, not to mention that Faith was the last person on earth who would voluntarily take on company.

"Ready when you are." Wesley brushed the last wood chips off the bed.

* * *

Faith squinted through the noon heat, regarding the old storm cellar door with her crossbow. Wesley wordlessly handed her a bottle of holy water. She considered asking about the consequences if his neck was broken or his throat ripped open in the ensuing minutes. Like he wanted to think about that. Hell, he looked pretty calm; maybe he was just worried about smashing his glasses. Whatever. Time for a barbecue; just do this. She swallowed any fears that may have been crawling up her spine and yanked open the wooden door, ready for the screams.

Unnervingly quiet. The few short steps led into a low dirt cellar that was little more than a hole in the ground. "Charming," Wesley remarked.

"Yeah right, they bailed. You've gotta be kidding me." She descended the stairs slowly, peering ahead into the cool darkness. The main small room branched out beyond the pool of sunlight from the entrance. Wesley touched her wrist lightly, frowning. There was a sudden shift of a shadow in the corner of her eye, and reflex made her spin to release the arrow from her crossbow. The vampire howled into ash but not before she felt the prick on her skin. "What the _fuck!_"

"It's a trap, get out!" Wesley hauled her to her feet—had she tripped or something?—and propelled her back to the stairs with nearly superhuman strength. He hissed sharply and suddenly Faith was back on the dirt floor. _Getup getup getup_, her brain was screaming on repeat as her body refused to listen. She dragged her fingertips over the tiny dart in her neck; fuckin' tranquilizer, she realized as her vision swam even further away. The puddle of sun she had been laying in abruptly cut off as the door closed and the pungent odor of burning flesh reached her nose. Someone moaned about their hand. And Drusilla emerged from the back of the cellar, nothing more than a darker shadow in the cellar. Then everything was black.

Drusilla shoved aside the idiot with his blistered hand and knelt by the drugged slayer. She ran a hand through her dark hair in an almost motherly mime. "You must be quite tired. Rest up and then you may be invited to the dinner party."

_The dim hallway, tattered green carpet outside of locked doors in a row. That hotel in San Andre, or was it Tulsa, the god damn deranged cult leader holed up with his charms. The hair on the back of her neck prickling for something she can never quite see, blood rushing for a fight or flight that never comes. The stairway is gone, the hallway goes on infinitely. She pounds on the doors that aren't doors; the knobs fall off in her hand._

She came back slowly, the greenish yellow hue of the hotel memory fading back into darkness and, for some odd reason, three bright spots of white light. It took a minute for Faith to reorient herself and the back of her throat felt as though she had swallowed a jar of cottonballs. The three spots of white refused to resolve themselves and she stared at them before realizing the flashlights were laying on the floor, putting her in a crude spotlight. Wesley, Drusilla. Her gut dove in sudden, brief dismay and now she could feel the ranch wire cutting into her wrists around the chair. Not good. She beat back a wave of nausea from the drug and looked around the room with its low dirt ceiling and rotted support beams. If nothing else, she could at least try to bury everyone down here. Something glinted off to the side; Drusilla stood silently in the corner, fingering a thin knife.

"What'd you do with Wes," Faith croaked hoarsely.

Drusilla glanced up as if hearing her from a distance and approached the chair, her lace-embroidered black dress languidly sweeping the floor. "His blood is poison," she sang softly. "But yours is delicious. A Slayer is just what is needed … though you're not the other one," she hissed, her lip curling in disgust.

Faith almost laughed. Tied to a chair in the company of a crazy vampire and still Buffy was the better person. What a punchline. "Needed for what? You want some friends dusted?"

"The medicine for the sick family," Dru replied, accentuating each syllable. Her beady eyes leveled unnervingly on Faith. "Daddy hasn't been the same."

* * *

Wesley welcomed back his consciousness with the feeling that someone was fishing him out of a sand dune. Was this what it was to wake up? Minus the headache and the nausea, he assumed. My God, what a familiar situation, he thought as he felt the wire binding his wrists against the chair, the cellar in complete darkness. It was a shame he hadn't yet figured out a way to escape, having been subjected to said predicament more times than he cared to recall.

"I'm already dead, you idiots," he muttered into the gloom. Judging by his intact neck, the vampires had smelled the dead man's blood and decided to … well, who knows. Save him for some after-dinner giggles, most likely. "Lovely, just lovely. Torture the walking corpse, ha ha," Wesley gritted out, testing the strength of the wire.

And Drusilla had Faith somewhere. By now likely bleeding her as if she were some slaughterhouse fat calf. Fuck it all. He closed his eyes again, as if willing himself back into oblivion. He should never have come out here. The minutes dragged by in painful silence. Well, what. Don't just sit here and do nothing; you've been a bang-up job with that for the past year or so. It's probably too late, he countered. Bled her out, left her down here somewhere to rot, alone.

Alone.

He was suddenly seized with a wave of panic, as if all his hard-built defenses had collapsed simultaneously to let in a flood of emotion. _No, I have to find her_; he knew with absolute her, for whatever reason, there was truly nothing. She was a way back to humanity, an offer of redemption, that much he was sure of.

Feeling on the verge of desperation, he strained against the wire to no avail and wished to god he would have at least remembered to put a pocketknife in the back of his jeans for once. "Goddamn it!" he shouted in futility. "Can I least get a _little_ fucking pity from anyone up there!"

"Wesley."

He let out a strangled yelp as—oh, of course—Lilah materialized in front of him, all neatly pressed gray suit and clipped blonde hair. She raised an eyebrow, fairly glowing in the darkness around them. "Whatever happened to those nice British manners."

Wesley sat back in the chair. "Lilah." Far from the angel he was hoping for.

"Not in the flesh, obviously."

It was a bit uncomfortable being tied up in front of her. Usually it used to go the other way around. "Mm. I wouldn't have envisioned you part of the emergency contingent."

"The Partners do have a sense of humor. Look, I'd love to stay and chat, but it's not part of your contract … Actually, I'm surprised they included this kind of job security for you, Wes. Not quite the apt pupil." Her smile didn't reach her eyes and she flickered like a mirage for a moment.

Right. Wolfram and Hart Employee Security, Part VII, Paragraph II. Personal attention to the well-being of all employees, dead or living, upon request.

"Just … get this damned wire off me," he muttered. Saved by the devil.

"That's right. You do need to rush off and rescue the damsel in distress. Well. Who am I to judge, I'm just the hired help from hell right now."

He bit back an irritated retort.

Lilah, or at least her image, seemed to savor the moment and took her time undoing the ranch wire behind the chair. Her hands ghosted over his, maybe in the pantomime of a memory. Wesley caught the faint scent of that perfume she used to wear in the mornings and there was the slightest pang of nostalgia. Look at what they had both become, he thought bitterly. As the twine fell away she flickered more violently and the sardonic twist of a smile melted. "Good luck," she whispered before winking out, her breath cool on his neck.

Her absence was as sudden as her appearance. He rubbed his wrists, waiting to see if anything else would happen—say, sudden teleportation to where Faith was. When no further deus ex machina presented itself, Wesley frowned, feeling around on the floor for his flashlight. No such luck there either. Hesitantly he stepped forward until his hand connected with the wooden wall. Now where the hell's the door … He felt for a knob, a large gap, a vertical slat, with increasing urgency. There! Halfway around the room he snagged the edge of a door and pried the swollen boards open.

An elbow caught him square on the chin and the darkness was suddenly lit up with a series of multicolored stars. "Shit!" he wheezed out, quickly blocking the next attack with the door, which splintered. The vampire on the other side growled and grabbed Wesley by the arm, pulling him back out. Stake. He caught what was left of the door, ripped half a board from its hinges, and stabbed out in the direction he thought might be the heart. He would sell his soul again to have any kind of light. Fuck, not the heart; the vampire screamed with a gurgle and dropped his grip on Wesley, who managed to connect his boot into some lower body part. Wesley fumbled on the ground for a minute, felt the vamp's torso soaked with blood, and took a good guess before it could get back up. He felt the body crumble around his makeshift stake and smelled the telling musty-tomb odor.

"Irma?" A voice called from down the tunnel, flashlight bouncing crazily off the walls like some sort of strobe light. Wesley grabbed a sharper bit of wood, waited pressed against the torn hinges. Heavy footsteps drew closer and then paused. He held his breath a moment, then lunged. Better aim this time; the latter-day version of John Wayne gaped in astonishment before dusting to the floor.

Wesley hefted the flashlight, could finally _see_, and resisted the urge to rush headlong into the tunnel. Keep your head. He quietly went deeper into the old cellar, composing a half-rambling prayer of hopeful deliverance out of habit. _If You just let her please be still alive, if You give me this second chance, I swear I'll …_ There wasn't a good way to bargain with God or the higher powers if pure evil had already laid claim to your soul, he realized.


	5. Without Direction, With Conviction

* * *

_Whew, it's certainly been ages since I last updated! But here we are ... I absolutely couldn't leave these characters hanging in limbo and this piece has really been in the back of my mind for months until I finally settled on an ending that felt true. My muse is crying with joy that I will finally move on to other projects. :)_

_Cheers!  
Anna_

* * *

Wesley wiped the vampire dust from his face and rolled up from the ground painfully; that knee to his side had hit just the right—or wrong—spot and his bandages felt too tight. That was two more down, including the one with the burnt hand. But where was Dru, he thought, beaming the flashlight around and feeling like he might descend into hysteria. Wasting too much time.

Finally throwing all caution to the wind he backtracked past the room he had been in and took the passage that branched out to the right. But instead of finding himself in another replicate of the earthen tunnel, it was a small concrete room and he stopped short. Probably the old storage room for emergency canned goods, he thought in a bizarre moment of calm clarity. Rotted shelves full of old jars crookedly leaned in towards the doorway and he peered at one, not sure why he was examining it so closely until his brain caught up with instinct. Newly packaged thick red liquid, warm to the touch. Placed almost carelessly as if someone had forgotten to pick it back up.

"Faith!" he called out. No response. Which didn't mean she was dead, he reminded himself. And now he had given away his presence. Wesley tightened his grip on the stake and ventured further into the room. Something clinked in the far corner, obstructed by a maze of sagging shelving, and he froze. Then unexpectedly:

"Who … who's there," someone asked, low with a hint of suspicion. A deep breath, muttered "Can't be …"

Wesley hesitated and felt the massive amount of adrenaline hammering through his system. Good thing he didn't have to worry about a heart condition. He knew that voice. Drawing himself up, he navigated the maze quickly and stopped short. The flashlight was deceptively steady in his hand.

"You," he said flatly.

He should have been more surprised. Maybe a lifetime of being surprised resulted in eventual immunity. His former employer handcuffed and chained to the wall of a church storm cellar? That, well, made sense reconsidering the details of the past year or so of the case. He took a step back.

Angel looked stunned, staring at Wesley as though he would vanish any second. His eyes were tellingly bright from the blood. "_Wes._ How did you, with Faith, what are you--"

He didn't have time for this. "Where is she, is she still alive?"

"Oh God, Dru …" Angel groaned and lifted a hand to his head, exposing a latticework of tribal tattoos starting at his wrist. Protection from the Senior Partners, Wesley realized. "I-I don't know. Yes … yes, she has to be, Dru was going to bring her in, I think."

Bring her in for what, Wesley thought. But he already knew and didn't want to think about it. _Faith's alive. _Whether or not Angel was telling the truth, he savored the relief and then hastily considered his options. Dru would tear them both apart and Angel had been feeding off innocent blood for almost a year. _You're wasting time_. Wesley frowned, thinking, then grimaced. Fuck it. He'd made worse decisions. The flashlight clicked off and plunged them into darkness.

"What the hell are you doing?" Angel asked as Wesley smashed the flashlight against the concrete, spraying pieces across the floor.

"Hopefully getting Faith out of here," he muttered and felt around for a minute. His fingers brushed and then seized on the thin copper wire. "Bring those cuffs over."

There was a chorus of clinking metal as Angel shifted and Wesley grabbed the cuffs as well as a thicker padlock, setting to work with the wire. "You know she's been feeding me. Humans, from the churches," Angel whispered, more of a warning statement than a guilty confessional. Too much sin could warp even the most noble soul, and Angel's hadn't been perfect to begin with.

"I know."

"She found me after that battle, bargained with who knows what demons to get these sigils inscribed. When I wasn't so weak anymore, I fought back at first … but then, I didn't think there was anyone left."

Wesley felt the click of the padlock and the chains from the wall dropped away. He moved on to the handcuffs and wished Angel would simply shut up. "If you want to confess, find the priest."

"You were dead."

"Am dead. Funny thing about contracts." Wesley paused; footsteps and a voice in the hall. Shit. He felt for the last click of resistance on the cuffs. "I swear to God, if you touch her," he hissed, leaving the threat unfinished. He wasn't sure exactly what he would be able to do against Angel and Dru if it came down to that. Didn't particularly care at this point.

He scrambled back behind one of the shelves as—was that candlelight?—the room grew brighter and the voice louder. Angel hadn't moved and he hoped it was because he'd play along with … what, the plan? The lack of a plan? Christ, this was not how he wanted things to end again. Not with Faith.

Then she was here. A torch hit the floor and burned slowly in a pool of oil. Drusilla stood back against the flickering distorted shadows and one hand hauled Faith to her feet. Dru regarded Angel for a moment, a smile crawling into place. "Mmm. See, I've brought you special desserts. She'll fix you right up," she purred, licking a streak of thick blood from Faith's neck.

Faith wavered in Dru's grasp, the beating still taking its toll. Her head pounded erratically and she could have sworn Angel was sitting there, eyeing her up. The oily smoke from the torch made her eyes water and cloud. "Fuck off," she mumbled in disgust as Dru fondled her.

"Don't tease," Angel growled. "And don't play with the food."

Dru rolled her head, exposing her fangs in a manner that might have appeared seductive. "Daddy's scolding. Have her while the fire's still burning, he says."

Faith felt the sharp enamel tickle down her neck. _This wasn't it; this wasn't the end_, flickered across her thoughts in disbelief. At least put up a fucking struggle. Wesley's going to find your dead body. Alone. Dru's bony fingers clutched into her side, eager and possessive. Summoning her last shred of strength, Faith lurched away and flung out a punch, amazed to feel it connect with Drusilla's jaw. She heard a scream of anger—wait, that was her—as her knee gave out; there was no way to run. Suddenly, a hand yanking her up.

"Faith, go! GO!" Wesley was half-dragging her back and she peered up blearily into his face. He glanced back behind them as shelves crashed and collapsed into the torch flames.

Angel held a snarling Drusilla against the wall, blood from someone snaking down his arm. When he turned, his own fangs were showing and Wesley knew it wasn't just his anger. After all, the scent of slayer's blood was practically reeking off of them. "Get out," he hissed.

Not like he needed any encouragement, Wes thought, hauling Faith up in both arms. The smoke grew thicker as they stumbled into the main hallway, unearthly shrieks following them from the room. "Where the fuck is the god damned … exit," Wesley half-sobbed as Faith sagged barely conscious against him. The passage had branched to the right—go left. It was a small eternity in the dark, like something from an abstract, insane hell. "Faith, stay with me, God please," he muttered. He felt her heartbeat against his arm.

And then … _there._  
A halo of soft light from the trapdoor, filtered and muted in the smoke.

Morning.  
The sky was still a quiet gray.  
Motionless save for a single lark off in the bushes.

"Is this real," Faith croaked.

* * *

She let the warm water envelope her split and bruised skin, broken bones, torn joints, with a shaky sigh. Lived another day. He tilted her head back and gently worked a hand through the matted, bloody mess of hair. The lingering odor of smoke mixed with a light floral shampoo scent. She opened her eyes. He gazed at her, like that night on the highway. She closed them again, sinking back into the depths of the bath.

After a moment: "Stay?"

She felt his hand pause in her hair and she held her breath. Felt him lean in, give the answer on her lips; sometimes it was better not to be alone.

* * *

THE END.


End file.
